


Your Blood in My Veins

by conchord



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchord/pseuds/conchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three months, Max returns to the Citadel and to Furiosa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Blood in My Veins

When she sees him again, his hair is caked in sand and blood. 

This isn’t new for them, for the kind of lives they lead, but it frightens her for a moment anyway until she knows it is – once again – not _his_ blood. This is how he has appeared in her dreams for the past three months, when she has been able to put a door between herself and her “disciples” to get some sleep. The walls can’t keep out the constant chants of _Imperator, Imperator_ however, a name that’s been mythologized to the point that she sometimes feels like a myth herself. Something fabricated for the whims of the people. Listening to the sounds of these chants at night, Furiosa can’t help feeling thin, like a page upon which her own story is being written.

 

Perhaps this is why Max’s return stirs something deep in her gut. As she seems him climbing the stairs up to the Citadel – his steps somehow quiet despite the rotund pack he carries on his shoulders – Furiosa finds herself subconsciously rubbing the wound underneath her ribs. When he stops a few feet from her, Max’s eyes dart down to her hand before looking up, his eyebrow lifted.

 

“Healed,” Furious responds, her mind lingering on the ease with which they are able to speak without words. How fitting it is that Max has been here for three seconds and his first inquiry is for her wellbeing.

 

Max nods his head and looks about the large room, always on the cusp of flight. He purses his lips as he does so, which keys Furiosa into how thirsty he must be.

 

“This way,” she nods, leaving the entrance hall and walking towards her chambers. She doesn’t hear him following her, but knows that he is. There has always been a kind of heat associated with his presence. Not the blistering heat of the desert or even the sun, but another kind, like a warmth on the way to becoming more. Like the rig’s wheel when it’s been lying under the morning sun, soft and supple. Blistering only when it’s been left alone for too long.

 

Furiosa turn the final corner before her chambers, and has the sudden impulse to look behind and see the man following her footsteps. She knows now what Max is like with too much heat, has seen him surrounded by the armies of men and fake gods, two guns in his hand as he defended the rig.

 

_No_ , she confesses to herself as she turns the knob of her door. Not the rig. He didn’t do it to defend a hunk of metal and gas. He defended the women, she thinks. _He defended me._

The realization of his sacrifice has not been something she has truly dealt with since he’s been away, and the thought is too large for her to fully contemplate. She shakes her head and has the sudden urge to laugh, and probably would if it hadn’t been such a long time since she’s done so. As is, she drops her shoulder and smiles sadly at Max, who blinks with a half-smile of his own.

 

“Come in,” she motions with her prosthetic arm. He walks in and drops his pack, only to reach back down for it a moment later, his eyes unsure. He’s waiting, as he always is, to know what she’s thinking.

 

“Didn’t know,” he rumbles, his voice low and dry, like something pulled out of the earth.

 

Furiosa nods in return, not quite sure what she’s deciding with the gesture but also positive that she likes the look of Max without a pack on his shoulders. As if he – or she, or anyone in this damned wasteland – needs another burden tacked on with everything else.

 

She is filled with the urge to take off the rest of his layers, to see them fall down like water off his body. It’s not entirely for any sexual desire, though that’s there too – has been, perhaps, since they slid into that rig as one. But even more than that, Furiosa wants this rebel soldier bare in front of her because, for all that she is overjoyed for the city and her people, she grows weary of the worship that comes with revolution. So tired of being lifted up, away from the rigs and the guns and the dirt. She thinks by looking at this beautiful man before her, she can feel more like herself. More like a woman with skin and a heart and a body.

 

A broken one, like everything else, but a body nonetheless.

 

She turns toward Max and unconsciously leans forward on the tips of her toes, one prosthetic hand on the door behind him, her mind reeling to catch up with her actions. Max, in return, does not step back – he’s never one to back away from anything, and the small smile on his lips assures her that he is aware of what is happening. How can he not, when her hand has always fit like worn leather into his? When he’s even now looping his fingers into her pants pocket, his callused thumb scraping against the inch of skin below her tunic?

 

Max peers up and she feels his breath against her cheek.  

 

“Furiosa,” he growls. He pulls her forward, tucking his arms around her, his hands feeling huge against her shoulder blades, her waist. She hasn’t felt this small in a long time, and with anyone else she would feel suffocated, drowned out. As is, she wraps her good hand around Max’s neck and clutches him closer, his dark hair soft against her palm.

 

“Max,” she answers him, and the name feels delicious in her mouth. She skips his mouth and ducks her head into his shoulder. He steps back towards the door behind them and at the last moment brings his hand up to her forehead so that the door doesn’t bump her in the process. Furiosa laughs at his gesture and lifts her head to see that Max is grinning. He rests his head on her shoulder and Furiosa weaves her fingers through his hair again.

 

“Still sacrificing yourself for me?” she asks warmly.

 

A few seconds pass and Max lifts his head to look at her steadily. His eyes have turned dark and wild, like those of an animal at the first scent of prey. His hands, however, are tender, and Furiosa realizes suddenly that he is rubbing the fingers of his right hand against the inside of her elbow, the scar of her blood transfusion all but gone. When he speaks, it is from somewhere deep inside, low like the hum of an engine.

 

“Always,” he breathes. “As you’ve done for me. Always.”

 

He ducks his head, the moment too heavy for either of them. Furiosa presses her hand against the back of his head until he is leaning against her shoulder, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. She knows that he needs rests and water and food, but Furiosa cannot stop herself from dropping her head and running a tentative tongue against Max’s throat. It is her response to his loyalty, an acknowledgement of the threaded path before them. This is her body as much as his, after all.

 

Max growls in return, and Furiosa pushes through her trepidations and sweeps the flat of her tongue just below his ear. His skin is salty, whether from sweat or sand she cannot tell, and she can taste the grittiness in her mouth. She bites down and Max stretches his neck to offer more skin. The back of his head hits the door with a bump and Furiosa lifts her hand to rub his hair. He smiles with his eyes closed, swallowing loudly as she continues exploring his neck, reaching up with her hands to yank the fabric of his collar down. He is nodding as she does so, his own hands thrusting her hips forward with shaking fingers.

 

“Yessss….” he whispers above her head, and Furiosa licks the word up his throat with her tongue. When she bites down on his earlobe, he hums like thunder against her, lifting his hands until they are on her cheeks. He pushes her away gently, and Furiosa looks up to see him staring back at her with eyes like a storm, like coal. His throat is streaked with red from her assault, and she is just beginning to feel guilty about that when he leans forward and sighs against her own throat.

 

“Bed,” he breathes. He begins to walk her backward, his feet steady, their path chosen. She is nodding her head, clutching his jacket, eager to feel his body beneath hers.

 

“Months,” she gasps when he bites down on her neck, almost breaking skin. His hands grasp at her waist. “Wanted this…”

 

“I know,” he answers, and the words sound like an apology against her skin. He sucks her neck, and Furiosa sighs, knowing he is leaving his mark. Wants more of them, her entire body a reminder of this happening. She barely hears his words.

 

“Tried not to come…couldn’t…but then _you_ …” he gasps out, and Furiosa understands. Knows exactly why he stayed away for as long as he did. Understands on a visceral level the struggle of _wanting_ someone in today’s world. The desire like a virus – a weakness in an environment where survival is possible only from self-reliance. She’s hated _herself_ for wanting this man this much. For the hope she has carried with her of his return.

 

But the grasping fingers at her waist and the wet mouth that is slowly falling towards her breasts makes her feel anything but weak. Furiosa lets her hands wander over Max’s broad shoulders in return, the veins of his neck like ripples of water along his skin. She wants to dig deep into the veins of this man, swim into their current and find herself. She releases a guttural howl into his neck and Max sways towards her, pushing her back and back with wide steps. Overcome with a wildness that she has not felt since the battle for the Citadel, Furiosa slides the thin wrist of her good hand over Max’s lips; with a growl, Max bites down hard on the skin, sucking it through his teeth and laving it with his tongue. He stares back at her as he does so, their eyes locked as Furiosa’s body rocks from the dual threads of pain and pleasure he is offering her.

 

His hands find her ass just when the back of her legs meets the bed, and Max releases her wrist with a wet slide of lips. Furiosa can feel her skin throbbing, knows it will be there until tomorrow, and smiles at the thought.

 

Furiosa’s chest rises and falls with Max’s, their foreheads resting against each other for a few moments, silent except for their breathing. Max then raises his head, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a small step back. He ducks his head and lifts his eyebrow, a question asked.

 

As with the taking of the Citadel, as with the rig, he will follow her lead. She feels powerful with this man standing before her, his body taut like a bowstring as he waits for her decision. But more than that she feels like a woman. A woman with a body and scars and blood coursing through her veins – his blood as well as hers.

 

She grins and tugs him forward, and Max breaths out a sigh of relief.

 

“Lean back,” he says, and it is the easiest thing she’s done in a long while. She is just feeling his breath against her stomach, is just coursing her fingers through his hair when she hears a knock at the door. Max pauses, but doesn’t lift his head.

 

Furiosa thinks about not saying anything, but it could be something important. Max isn’t the only traveler who has entered the Citadel today.

 

“Furiosa?”

 

It is Capable, which means that it has something to do with the War Boys. Furiosa lifts up on her elbows, her breasts skidding across the top of Max’s head. Max, in turn, growls lowly against her skin, his right hand coming up and pressing into her shoulder until she is prone before him again.

 

“Max…” she whispers, his touch rubbing raw against her hipbone. It feels amazing, and she closes her eyes with a hum.

 

“Furiosa? Are you there?”

 

She is just about to respond when Max bites down just below her belly button, his growl louder but not quite enough to reach the door. Furiosa grasps his head, though whether the action is to push him away or encourage him she has no idea. Apparently he has plans that do not involve the rest of the Citadel.

 

She hears Capable walk away, and takes a few moments to revel in the feel of Max’s mouth against her before sitting up completely, shoving him off with her prosthetic arm. He leans back on his heels, and his hands rest on her outstretched legs. He looks guilty for all of three seconds before he grins back at her, and Furiosa shakes her head, laughing.

 

“Care to see how a Citadel is run?” she asks, standing up and adjusting the belts that had come loose under his hands. He seems to consider it before the pitcher of fresh water on the other side of the room catches his eye, and he swallows in response. Furiosa walks across the room and carries the entire container over to him, figuring he would have little use for the glasses. She usually drinks from the pitcher herself most of the time. Max takes the water with a nod and Furiosa turns on her heel toward the door, her mind already running through the camp to determine where Capable might be. It shouldn’t make her feel as relieved as it does when she feels Max’s hand in her hers, turning her around.

 

He holds her waist, tentatively until she steps forward and then with both hands splayed across her back. His forehead comes down to rest upon hers, and Furiosa knows she will never tire of feeling this man’s skin against her body. He breathes out her name, the sound like something green pulled from the parched earth.

 

“Max,” she answers with a callused hand against his face. Furiosa closes her eyes and feels his chest against her own. She smiles and kisses Max’s neck, the exhale of his lungs the last sound she hears before she closes the door behind her and walks into the beating sun of the Citadel.

 


End file.
